is that now, I'm always trying to figure out what to write in it.
Today, I was waiting for my bus, when I realized I hadn;t updated in a couple of days. I had no idea what to write about. I started noticing all the people. In front of me was a woman in a green shirt and a black skirt reading a book about how to take control of one's own mind. We had a brief conversation about a fly.
"Oh my!" she swatted a bit.
"What's the matter?"
"There was this bug flying around!"
"Oooh."
"You know, if it was flying around here, it must be dirty."
"Well, I think, it's probably the same to a bug as a lot of other pplaces."
"Huh?"
"Well, it probably looks the same. Because like, a bug is so small."
"Yeeeah, and this place is so big to a bug! I meant though, like food and stuff. Like, look at that." She pointed to what looked like two beans wedged between the window and the top of the brick that the wall that wasn't window was made of.
"Bug heaven."
"Bug buffet, we call it in my house, when we leave food around and bugs get it. I don't allow that."
"Very wise."
"My husband is the wise one."
"Your husband?"
"He's very into cellophane."
"Cellophane?"
"For preventing bug buffet."
I think I would have had that conversation even if not for the blog, but I can't be sure. I made a lot of effort to notice people behind me in line. There was one oldish lady in an orange shirt and a straw hat. There was a couple who were embracing, rocking back and forth, the woman singing into the man's chest. There were a couple of kids from my town who had been on the bus on the way in, one of them a boy with pink hair who appeared to be wearing a skirt and small wings on his back, and a girl who was wearing a lei (btw, the first result for "lei" on google images is, for some reason, a naked woman spreading her legs at the camera. There is no flowery necklace anywhere in the picture).
I also noticed another person who had been on the bus on the way in, a young woman with a dark complexion, wearing short overalls and had a bit of pink in her hair. I waved to her, and she waved back. She seemed to be standing in line with a rather overweight man who had a fauxhawk. I really hoped she wasn't with him. She had a vitality that I couldn't imagine in this man, or so I believed for the purpose of writing this blog.
I can't tell if thinking of things as potential blog fodder is good or bad. One on hand, it means I notice things more, but on the other hand, I always noticed things a lot of people don't, and I feel like it makes me seem really sketchy. This could just accentuate that. Also, it means I might never experience things for their own sake.
Meh.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
I REALLY wanna see Mister Lonely
How can it possibly not be good?
Also, see Gummo and Julien Donkey-Boy right away.
The thing about Harmony Korine, is that he really sees the beauty in his subjects without idealizing them. Or something. It's like nostalgia minus sepia.
So, if anyone can make a movie about a lonesome Michael Jackson impersonator without it being irritatingly cutesy, it's him.
Also, see Gummo and Julien Donkey-Boy right away.
The thing about Harmony Korine, is that he really sees the beauty in his subjects without idealizing them. Or something. It's like nostalgia minus sepia.
So, if anyone can make a movie about a lonesome Michael Jackson impersonator without it being irritatingly cutesy, it's him.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The development of The Prodigal Son as a conversationalist
From zero years to one year old, most of my communication consisted of the standard gurgles. Sometime after that, I said the word "ball." It's just been uphill from there.
My very first communication was about superheroes. This is because my father taught me the secret identities of the superheroes. He used to parade me around like a prize poodle who knew one trick, supplying me with the names of costumed vigilantes.
"The Hulk!"
"Bwuce Banna!"
"Spiderman!"
"Peta Pahka!"
"Batman!"
"Bwuce Wayne!"
I also knew many of the theme songs from the TV shows. I used to go around singing them. Adults seemed to like this. It also, along with, later on, my spelling abilities, seemed to garner grudging respect from my peers. I learned that if you knew something that not everybody did, it made you cool. Of course, it was a lot less cool when I turned eleven or so, and still tried to impress people with my knowledge of comics, which exploded into obsession passed its beginnings as a kind of parlor trick for my dad.
Then, I got into movies. Suddenly, everything related to films. I would go out of my way to direct conversations to the topic of cinema, constructing extended metaphors that made no sense whatsoever. Also, in my beginnings as a cinephile, I got very self-righteous, yelling at girls who thought Johnny Depp was "like, so hot in Secret Window," telling them to watch Edward Scissorhands.
I was cool and smart.
My teachers said I had a lot of potential, and they told my mother I was very handsome, which made up for the hatred from most of my peers.
Then, I went to a gifted program camp. It wasn't great, but I made a very good friend. The next summer, we did the program again, but at a different college campus. We had both discovered masturbation, and we talked about it constantly, especially before we went to bed. It would be interspersed with references to fairly standard classic movies.
When I went back home, this time to a new town, I had a new topic of conversation.
I was cool and smart.
Somewhere in the middle of eighth grade, I realized that I actually enjoyed talking to people, even if most of them did not like talking to me. How would I be able to have conversations? I thought I found an answer. I would get into music.
That summer, I went back to the gifted program, for the third and last year I would ever go. Someone gave me their Queen best-of CD. People also talked a lot about Pink Floyd, so I found Wish you Were Here when i got home. At school, I found someone who would burn CDs for me if I did the same for them. My uncle lent me Maggot Brain, and they gave me a copy of The Velvet Underground and Nico. Soon, I became the same way about music as I had with movies. Both became passions. I spent hours indulging in both, and looking for hours on the internet for information. Funnily enough, this sort of internet research is a solitary activity.
I was cool and smart.
Fortunately, in ninth grade, I did find a group of people, and magically enough, we talked, and still do.
For several years, all I talked about was music, movies, and masturbation. However, I learned to talk about something else as well, somewhere along the line, as this blog will attest to: myself!
Conversations used to start, "You know what would be a great time? Whacking it to Funkadelic."
Now they begin, "I will have a great time whacking it to Funkadelic."
I am cool and smart.
My very first communication was about superheroes. This is because my father taught me the secret identities of the superheroes. He used to parade me around like a prize poodle who knew one trick, supplying me with the names of costumed vigilantes.
"The Hulk!"
"Bwuce Banna!"
"Spiderman!"
"Peta Pahka!"
"Batman!"
"Bwuce Wayne!"
I also knew many of the theme songs from the TV shows. I used to go around singing them. Adults seemed to like this. It also, along with, later on, my spelling abilities, seemed to garner grudging respect from my peers. I learned that if you knew something that not everybody did, it made you cool. Of course, it was a lot less cool when I turned eleven or so, and still tried to impress people with my knowledge of comics, which exploded into obsession passed its beginnings as a kind of parlor trick for my dad.
Then, I got into movies. Suddenly, everything related to films. I would go out of my way to direct conversations to the topic of cinema, constructing extended metaphors that made no sense whatsoever. Also, in my beginnings as a cinephile, I got very self-righteous, yelling at girls who thought Johnny Depp was "like, so hot in Secret Window," telling them to watch Edward Scissorhands.
I was cool and smart.
My teachers said I had a lot of potential, and they told my mother I was very handsome, which made up for the hatred from most of my peers.
Then, I went to a gifted program camp. It wasn't great, but I made a very good friend. The next summer, we did the program again, but at a different college campus. We had both discovered masturbation, and we talked about it constantly, especially before we went to bed. It would be interspersed with references to fairly standard classic movies.
When I went back home, this time to a new town, I had a new topic of conversation.
I was cool and smart.
Somewhere in the middle of eighth grade, I realized that I actually enjoyed talking to people, even if most of them did not like talking to me. How would I be able to have conversations? I thought I found an answer. I would get into music.
That summer, I went back to the gifted program, for the third and last year I would ever go. Someone gave me their Queen best-of CD. People also talked a lot about Pink Floyd, so I found Wish you Were Here when i got home. At school, I found someone who would burn CDs for me if I did the same for them. My uncle lent me Maggot Brain, and they gave me a copy of The Velvet Underground and Nico. Soon, I became the same way about music as I had with movies. Both became passions. I spent hours indulging in both, and looking for hours on the internet for information. Funnily enough, this sort of internet research is a solitary activity.
I was cool and smart.
Fortunately, in ninth grade, I did find a group of people, and magically enough, we talked, and still do.
For several years, all I talked about was music, movies, and masturbation. However, I learned to talk about something else as well, somewhere along the line, as this blog will attest to: myself!
Conversations used to start, "You know what would be a great time? Whacking it to Funkadelic."
Now they begin, "I will have a great time whacking it to Funkadelic."
I am cool and smart.
Monday, June 23, 2008
First swim of the summer
We've got this brook right by our school. We call it "The AIDS", something which really bothers my dad, but that's not what I'm talking about right now.
Now, generally, the brook is very shallow. One can go in it and hop from rock to rock, and it's not very wide at all, so it's very easy to get something that has fallen in it or to just go across without using the bridge. However, after a rain, it will fill up. Yesterday, it rained for awhile.
So, myself and a friend went to toss a frisbee around by the school. I three it across the brook. My friend got it and threw it back to me. I was standing right next to the water, which was a lovely shade of brown. I don't really have to say what happened.
We talked about getting it with a stick for a little while. That wasn't going to work. My friend decided that maybe we could go in. She's very short, so we decided I would go in. It only went up jsut above my knee. This wasn't so bad. However, the frisbee was quite a ways away. There was a drop, and the murk was up to my waist. Then, my chest.
The best bit? When I finally got to the frisbee, the area that it was in only went to my knees.
So, we walked back.
"You know, Josh, I really feel like I should have gone in to sympathize with you. Actually, now I'd really like to go in. Oh well."
"You want to?"
We ran back.
"You know, now I'm not sure...."
I threw the disc in.
P.S. Google tells me that my highschool is the only one in America that has an outdoor amphitheatre with a brook running through it. God must REALLY like me.
Now, generally, the brook is very shallow. One can go in it and hop from rock to rock, and it's not very wide at all, so it's very easy to get something that has fallen in it or to just go across without using the bridge. However, after a rain, it will fill up. Yesterday, it rained for awhile.
So, myself and a friend went to toss a frisbee around by the school. I three it across the brook. My friend got it and threw it back to me. I was standing right next to the water, which was a lovely shade of brown. I don't really have to say what happened.
We talked about getting it with a stick for a little while. That wasn't going to work. My friend decided that maybe we could go in. She's very short, so we decided I would go in. It only went up jsut above my knee. This wasn't so bad. However, the frisbee was quite a ways away. There was a drop, and the murk was up to my waist. Then, my chest.
The best bit? When I finally got to the frisbee, the area that it was in only went to my knees.
So, we walked back.
"You know, Josh, I really feel like I should have gone in to sympathize with you. Actually, now I'd really like to go in. Oh well."
"You want to?"
We ran back.
"You know, now I'm not sure...."
I threw the disc in.
P.S. Google tells me that my highschool is the only one in America that has an outdoor amphitheatre with a brook running through it. God must REALLY like me.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Formative childhood experience
When I was in elementary school, we had to make timelines of our lives. We were supposed to put important events on it. On it, I had my birth, the births of each of my sisters, and the time I got my head stuck. I think that is the single most important event of my life.
This happened back when I lived in Park Slope, in Brooklyn. I was five or six years old at the time. At the synagogue I went to, they had this great playground. You could go on it for hours, and you'd end up incredibly dusty by the end, because it's not like they had grass or anything. Just dust. I also played some pretty intense handball games there. They also had this fantastic jungle gym swingset thingamabobber, with this long metal slide that used to heat up in the sun to the point where our little Jewish behinds would fry. Holding up the set were these long wooden square post type things. On each side they had a couple spaced very closely together, not enough space to slip in between, but just enough to put your head in. Barely. Being the young, adventurous soul I was, I decided to do just that. But I couldn't get it out. I yelled for help, or maybe someone just noticed me, and they got a little pink chair for me to sit in. My dad stuck his head out the window, as someone had told him that my head was stuck. It was a really big event. The Rabbi, I think even, came outside. People offered tips: "Try wiggling it!," "If you got in you have to be able to get out," until someone ran down with some soap. that didn't help, but my head got a nice wash. Eventually, they called the fire department, and the firemen used the jaws of life to pry the bars apart, and I was free!
Not only has this affected me, it has affected those around me. My sister, who is seventeen months younger, says this is her first memory. The synagogue eventually took the swingset down, though that could also be because of Jew-ass flambe.
Even better than all this, though, is that people at the synagogue still remember. on the occasions we go back there, once or twice a year, inevitably, someone whose name i won't know will come up to me.
"Joshie!"
"Heeeeey!!"
"How is Connecticut?"
"Uh, we actually live in New Jersey now."
"Oh riiiight, your mother was telling me about that. Oh my, you've grown so much. I remember when you were up to my hip. You used to get in the funniest situations. I'm sure you don't remember the time when the fire department had to come and rescue you?"
This happened back when I lived in Park Slope, in Brooklyn. I was five or six years old at the time. At the synagogue I went to, they had this great playground. You could go on it for hours, and you'd end up incredibly dusty by the end, because it's not like they had grass or anything. Just dust. I also played some pretty intense handball games there. They also had this fantastic jungle gym swingset thingamabobber, with this long metal slide that used to heat up in the sun to the point where our little Jewish behinds would fry. Holding up the set were these long wooden square post type things. On each side they had a couple spaced very closely together, not enough space to slip in between, but just enough to put your head in. Barely. Being the young, adventurous soul I was, I decided to do just that. But I couldn't get it out. I yelled for help, or maybe someone just noticed me, and they got a little pink chair for me to sit in. My dad stuck his head out the window, as someone had told him that my head was stuck. It was a really big event. The Rabbi, I think even, came outside. People offered tips: "Try wiggling it!," "If you got in you have to be able to get out," until someone ran down with some soap. that didn't help, but my head got a nice wash. Eventually, they called the fire department, and the firemen used the jaws of life to pry the bars apart, and I was free!
Not only has this affected me, it has affected those around me. My sister, who is seventeen months younger, says this is her first memory. The synagogue eventually took the swingset down, though that could also be because of Jew-ass flambe.
Even better than all this, though, is that people at the synagogue still remember. on the occasions we go back there, once or twice a year, inevitably, someone whose name i won't know will come up to me.
"Joshie!"
"Heeeeey!!"
"How is Connecticut?"
"Uh, we actually live in New Jersey now."
"Oh riiiight, your mother was telling me about that. Oh my, you've grown so much. I remember when you were up to my hip. You used to get in the funniest situations. I'm sure you don't remember the time when the fire department had to come and rescue you?"
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
The best cover ever
Not counting some where the cover version is the most famous. Or ones that I'm forgetting right now. My favorite as of this moment in time.
The winner is Dinosaur Jr.'s cover of "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure!
What is it that makes this version so good? Who would have known that Robert Smith's melodic wobble would have translated well to J. Mascis' slacker moan? Even better, the jangly guitars of the original somehow sound just as good when distorted and played in J Mascis style. Plus, of course, this one has a Dino Jr. guitar solo (the best kind).
I think part of what makes it so good is that Dinosaur Jr. and the Cure are both about the same number of steps removed from punk, just in very different directions. The Cure took the whole British post-punk to pop new wave thing and ran with it, and Dinosaur Jr. were born out of the American hardcore thing that turned into the sort of 80s alternative thing that went on SST records (along with Dino Jr, the Minutemen, the Meat Puppets, etc). I think the steps removed thing is what makes "Just Like Heaven" seem so right as a Dino Jr. song.
Also, the video has puppets.
The Cure version
The Dinosaur Jr. version
I'm sure a lot of you (well, seeing as "a lot" of people don;t read this, that isn't true) know this already, but I've just been having a bit of a personal Dinosaur Jr. revival lately.
The winner is Dinosaur Jr.'s cover of "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure!
What is it that makes this version so good? Who would have known that Robert Smith's melodic wobble would have translated well to J. Mascis' slacker moan? Even better, the jangly guitars of the original somehow sound just as good when distorted and played in J Mascis style. Plus, of course, this one has a Dino Jr. guitar solo (the best kind).
I think part of what makes it so good is that Dinosaur Jr. and the Cure are both about the same number of steps removed from punk, just in very different directions. The Cure took the whole British post-punk to pop new wave thing and ran with it, and Dinosaur Jr. were born out of the American hardcore thing that turned into the sort of 80s alternative thing that went on SST records (along with Dino Jr, the Minutemen, the Meat Puppets, etc). I think the steps removed thing is what makes "Just Like Heaven" seem so right as a Dino Jr. song.
Also, the video has puppets.
The Cure version
The Dinosaur Jr. version
I'm sure a lot of you (well, seeing as "a lot" of people don;t read this, that isn't true) know this already, but I've just been having a bit of a personal Dinosaur Jr. revival lately.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)